“Physicians don’t keep ointment,” said Stubbs, with dignity. “We prescribe—simply.”
“His practice is gone,” repeated Mizzlemist, “and then, if he’s not made his fortune, then”—and Mizzlemist rolled the verdict over his tongue,—“then there is poverty, emphatic poverty. And so, as friends of Dr. Dodo, give him a hint, do. Are you going westward, Stubbs? I see your wheels are at the door. Can you give me a trundle?”
“With pleasure,” and Stubbs and Mizzlemist straightway departed.
“You did not see the hole yourself, Colonel?” asked Thrush, with contemplative face.
“Why, no. I was the last person to look at it, you know. Humph?” cried Bones.
“I wish I had had a peep. Would have been more satisfactory—much more,” said Thrush, puzzled.
“I saw no blood; and I was near enough to see that. Humph?” and Bones nibbled his thumb-nail.
“After all,” and Thrush spoke like a man of amended judgment, “after all, it must be Dodo’s joke, or if not”—and Thrush pointed expressively at his own forehead, “poor fellow! A large family, too. At all events, we cannot be too prudent. And so, till we hear more, I think we will postpone our call upon Doctor Cummin.”
“I must say I wouldn’t trouble either him or the bishop without better grounds. For my part I think there must be a mistake. And then there’s libel, and lunacy, and—though I’ve nothing to lose—there’s poverty, and—upon my word”—and Bones seemed fixed in the opinion—“I think we had better hold our peace.”
“I think so too,” cried Thrush, very readily. “For I recollect it was a saying of the King of Siam’s, that the giant Whapperwo, who with his little finger could level stone walls, was at last knocked down by his own tongue.”